The L.A. River

The river of words, the river of dreams.

It gets angry when it’s polluted; it’s satisfied when it’s cleaned.

It has a mind of its own, and it has its own feelings.

It speaks from its swift currents,

It thinks from its dark depths,

It slows its cascades for a nice, peaceful rest.

Men rip the river of its beauty when they came,

Though the spirit of the river they thought they could tame.

Bordered by concrete walls,

The river is in pain in its pitiful calls,

Yet in some parts it flows freely,

It will always be there for us to see.

Waters rushing, slithering snake-like,

Strong and bold, like an eagle’s flight.

It runs through the valley, like a mustang in the night.

The river is a depression potion,

You’d get drowsy from its flowing motion.

- Mack Bleach